


glass unshattering

by cactuslesbian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Foster Care, Gen, MAG 59 Recluse, Protectiveness, the web is horifying and baby agnes is a cryptid, unlikely frienship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23790886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactuslesbian/pseuds/cactuslesbian
Summary: “It’s a sad story,”Ronald blinks. Not because of what she’s said, but rather how she’s said it. She doesn’t sound like she’s upset that it’s sad, there’s no second-hand empathy even attempting to seep into her tone. It’s the same way he would say that it’s raining outside; Agnes is simply stating a fact.or, in which ronald looks after agnes and agnes looks after ronald.
Relationships: Agnes Montague & Ronald Sinclair
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	glass unshattering

**Author's Note:**

> this fic contains mentions of ableism, child abuse, and vaguely referenced suicide. Please go with caution.

He remembers Agnes. 

Sometimes Ronald Sinclair looks back on his days at Hill Top Road and remembers the other children who’d filtered in and out, but Agnes stands out in his mind. Maybe because she was so little and he instinctively thought to watch out for the younger of the kids everywhere he went, or maybe it was simply her odd mannerisms and quiet demeanor.

the fact that one day she simply _was_.

-

She’s an eerie little thing, seated in an old bay window and staring out into the street with wide brown eyes that seem to take everything in. A little finger idly twirls one of her braids and her head tips to the side as Ron walks up the steps, magazines under his arm. 

“She lives here now,” Doris informs, leaning against the banister as he enters. “Agnes, she said. You can introduce yourself if you’d like; I don’t think she’s very talkative.”

“Ah,” Ron says. He sets the magazines on a little end table without fear of having them stolen. The kids here, unlike most of the other places he’s been sent, don’t steal. He doesn’t question it, but knows it to be so. There are many things in this house that he doesn't think to question.

From there he quietly approaches Agnes, crouches a bit so they’re at eye level, and holds out his hand. “I’m Ronald. You can call me Ron, if you like. You’re Agnes, yeah?”

She glances from his hand to his face but makes no move to touch him. Simply continues to twirl her pigtails with an expression that’s almost curious if not a little detached. Agnes doesn’t say a word, and Ron withdraws his hand.

Ron has met children like this before in his three and a half years in the system. Quiet kids with sharp eyes, children with strange habits and mannerisms that set the adults on edge for being different. A boy in his last placement by the name of Dean McKenzie had liked to tap his fingertips together, shake his hands when excited; didn’t much speak, but would often make popping noises with his mouth. Ron had been the one to bandage his hands after their guardian had hit him with a switch until he bled.

While he can’t exactly picture _Just-Call-Me-Ray_ as the type to actually hurt Agnes for her being different, Ron resolves then and there to keep an eye on her, just in case. 

It doesn’t dawn on him until decades after the fact that around Agnes, his head is clearer than it’s been in months, ever since moving to Hill Top Road. He never really knows why.

-

He treats Agnes the way he thinks he’d like to be treated if he were a little girl with odd mannerisms and slightly unsettling habits in a home full of teenage delinquents who are several years her senior.

He doesn’t condescend, doesn’t press her to talk, tries to notice when and where she seems to not be in a mood to be around people, and goes from there. Once or twice, Ron picks up an apple tart along with his magazines and leaves it on the window seat where she’ll usually perch. He's never actually sure if she's eating them or not, but they are always gone by the time he's back inside.

The other kids tend to give her a wide berth, but most notably, so does Raymond Feilding. 

One day Ron sits under the tree with his magazine and Agnes quietly settles next to him, her own book in hand. The intent is clear and nice; she’d like to be around him even as they’re both engrossed in their own little worlds. 

_

Eight months pass since Agnes first arrived at Hill Top Road before she finally speaks to him.

It’s the kind of rain that seems as though the sky has split open and is pouring itself out around the old house. The other kids are off in their own worlds, doing their own thing, but at some point, Ronald approaches the bay window and asks Agnes if it’d be alright to sit there. He figures if he'll be sitting in the quiet, he may as well do so with company.

“Yes,” 

He’s a little startled for a moment. He has never heard her voice; it’s soft and has a confidence to it that he hadn’t expected from a child, let alone one who has barely spoken in eight months. Possibly longer.

Ron smiles, “Alright,” And settles at the other end of the cushioned seat with his book. 

“Macbeth.” She says. She shifts a bit closer to where he sits and taps the cover of the dusty book he’s borrowed from Raymond’s library. “I know that one.”

“Yeah?” He smiles, showing interest and attention. He’s never heard Agnes ever speak this much and he wants to keep her talking. “What did you think? Seems a bit dull to me.”

“It’s a sad story,”

Ronald blinks. Not because of what she’s said, but rather _how_ she’s said it. She doesn’t sound like she’s upset that it’s sad, there’s no second hand empathy even attempting to seep into her tone. It’s the same way he would say that it’s raining outside; Agnes is simply stating a fact. 

They don’t talk again for the rest of the afternoon.

_

Agnes will sometimes follow him from place to place in the house. She rarely speaks, never attempts to reach out to touch him, just quietly drifts along behind him. Ronald does his best to engage with her, smiles affectionately and hands her magazine’s he’s finished reading to inspect. The other kids call her a duckling, but Agnes reminds him more of a shadow. Persistent and aloof.

When it’s Ronald’s turn to cook dinner, Agnes is right there with him. She sits at the kitchen table with a notepad and a pack of crayons that Ron found for her. If he doesn’t look at the drawing, he can pretend it’s something simple and cute, but every time he catches a glimpse at the notepad, all he sees is surprisingly vivid fire engulfing everything.

“Wanna help me cut the vegetables?” Ron asks eventually. “You can be my sous chef.”

“Sous?” Agnes has flipped the notepad so the drawing is table-side down. She stands next to the counter and looks up at him.

“it’s french, I think. Probably means 'helper' or somethin’ like that.” Ron smiles fondly, offers her one of Raymond’s knives and the cutting board. “Give it a go. Let me know if you need help, yeah?”

Agnes nods. Carefully and slowly she cuts the tomatoes into uniform slices, but Ron wouldn’t dare rush her. 

“So, Agnes, what’s your favorite food?” He asks idly, stirring the pot on the stove. “I’m partial to spaghetti, myself. And cake. Chocolate cake.”

“Apple tarts,” Agnes says simply enough. She doesn’t look up from the tomatoes. “I like when you bring them to me.”

Something about that makes him feel warm inside. He’d always considered that such a simple gesture, but the fact Agnes hadn’t makes him want to wrap her in a hug. He reaches out a hand to affectionately ruffle her bangs, but Agnes moves her head away, shaking it.

“You can’t touch me.” She says. 

Once again, Ron notes the odd way she’s said it. There’s no emotion or a hint of her being upset. Agnes is simply stating a fact. The sky is blue, water is wet, Agnes Montegue cannot be touched.

But he doesn’t argue with her. Their relationship works only because he respects her boundaries and lets her do things on her own time. Maybe one day she’ll let him give her a hug, or ruffle her hair. But for now, he’ll simply compliment the neatness of her tomato slices.

_

His last day is bittersweet. Enough of the other older kids have left, the kids he started out with, turned eighteen and went off into the wide world. Agnes has been avoiding him, it seems. He doesn’t know if she’s angry he’s going, or upset, but he tries not to push her.

He sees her seated at the bay window and sits next to her. For the past few weeks he’s been forgoing his pulp magazines in order to get her a parting gift, “It’s a stationary set.” Ronald informs. “Once I get settled, I’ll write to you and you can write to me. It won’t be goodbye.”

Agnes frowns deeply at the little forget-me-nots inked onto the corners of the paper and on the envelopes, the uniform lines, the pen with little bluebirds on it, and the roll of similarly flowered stamps. 

He’s about to offer to exchange it, ger her a better one, but Agnes whispers, “I love it.”

Ronald smiles even though his chest feels tight, like he’s about to cry. He hasn’t cried in years now, but he can’t help but feel his eyes misting. He hadn't even realized up until this point that he truly adores this strange child. 

“This isn’t goodbye, yeah?” 

Agnes nods.

_ 

  
  


Ronald sits in the train car and stares blankly ahead as tears drip down his cheeks. He’s confused and he’s terrified, his cheek has a raised welt where Agnes had kissed it.

Distantly he thinks that that action had saved his life. 

She had saved his life.

  
  


____

  
  


He’s in his late twenties when the first letter arrives, smelling faintly of smoke and dotted with blue forget-me-nots. His heart constricts in his chest because for nearly seven years he’s been wracked with guilt over leaving Agnes in that house after what he’d seen. He can still see her as that little girl in the window, the one who would make too much eye contact and twirl her braids. He’s often spent a sleepless night wondering if she met a similar fate as the other kids in Raymond’s “study”.

But according to the letter, written in neat and small cursive, Agnes is doing alright for herself. She mentions that Raymond is gone and the house is now hers, but specifically notes that it’s for the best if he doesn’t visit. Ron has no objections to that.

He sends her nearly three pages worth of letter; he details the man he’s apprenticed for, the job he’s now making good money in, the flat he’s just moved into. He mentions that he’s glad she’s safe and that he’s missed her. In the last lines, he encourages her to not be a stranger.

_

The letters arrive intermittently during the course of his life. Agnes is always vague and aloof, but he tells her everything. He talks of his wife, his first child, his second child, getting promoted, going to night classes, losing his wife, and walking his daughter down the aisle.

He’s an old man when he finally sees her in person and he’s startled more than anything. He’d just given his statement to the Magnus Institute about Hill Top Road after his granddaughter had practically begged him to talk to someone, anyone.

Agnes doesn’t look a day over twenty five. Her face is carefully blank and youthful, pretty in an intense sort of way. He thinks idly of the tale of the ugly duckling who grew into a swan, but he’s sure the swan eventually aged.

“Don’t worry about it,” Agnes’s tone is soft and careful, but dismissive.

“Is it really you?” Ron asks with a trembling voice. 

As if to answer his question, Agnes slides an apple tart across the table. Steam still curls off of it. 

Ron lets out a soft breath, somewhere between a gasp and sob, covers his hand with his mouth.

Agnes speaks again, “I wanted to thank you. You’ve been a good friend all these years. I won’t be able to write anymore, but I feel you should know.”

And just like that, Agnes stands and walks out, leaving Ron in silence with a tea that bubbles with heat and an apple tart.

When he reads of her death a little later that week, he can’t explain to his children and grandchild exactly why it is that he can’t seem to stop crying.

**Author's Note:**

> anges deserved one nice thing.
> 
> catch me on @smallandknowingdyke on tumblr or dorkbending on twitter


End file.
